


White Flags Stained Red

by SpellCleaver



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Imperial Luke Skywalker, Inspired by Art, Sith Luke Skywalker, Unhappy Ending, Unreliable Narrator, but still: be warned for violence, in which Spell murders her friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28841205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellCleaver/pseuds/SpellCleaver
Summary: Luke Skywalker, recently instated into the Imperial hierarchy as Lord Vader's son, is trying to make his mark in the most controversial way possible: initiating peace talks with the Rebel Alliance.But far too many people don't trust his intentions--and even more are willing to ensure he doesn't succeed at all.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 26
Kudos: 130





	White Flags Stained Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Noodle_Soup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noodle_Soup/gifts).



> Ahhhh so this was inspired by[@coralnoodle](https://coralnoodle.tumblr.com/)'s brilliant [Imperial Luke AU](https://coralnoodle.tumblr.com/tagged/imperial-luke-skywalker), set as a sort of prequel to the art he's posted, and based off conversations we've had about it :D Hope you enjoy, Cory!

Luke smoothed his hands over the front of his tunic and did up the buttons carefully, before slipping on his gloves and fastening his cape around his shoulders. He took a deep breath, glanced at himself in the mirror… then turned away, the cape swirling against his calves.

"I'm ready," he said. "Are they—"

"They have arrived," his father informed him. It was unlike Vader to lurk—he was too tall and bulky for that—but he did it anyway, not quite coming close enough to Luke to make this a comfortable conversation, making the distance that had been between them since Luke had embarked on this endeavour all too physical.

Luke glanced up at him with a smile and huffed. "It'll be fine, you know," he said, a little cockily. "This will go well—and we'll be a step closer to consolidating peaceful Imperial rule, and preventing unnecessary bloodshed. You'll see."

"You have heard all my objections before—"

"But you're going to say them again, aren't you?"

"The Rebels are naïve, idealistic fools," Vader snapped. "They do not possess the foresight to take the Empire, so they content themselves with being gnats we must squash—yet you think you can reason with them? There is no reason or logic in their cause. There is nothing to sympathise with. No compromise will satisfy them, or satiate their bloodlust, and you are only wasting your time and risking your life."

"I'm not wasting my time. Even if nothing comes of this, this is an important alley we have to pursue—if they refuse to cooperate, we know for sure that Mothma is beyond reasoning with, and we will still have the ability to say that we tried. We _have_ to try—if there's any hope of success and mutual cooperation, we _have_ to. I don't know why neither you nor Palpatine did it before." Actually, he did, but he was going to keep his opinions about the Emperor safely tucked away in his chest.

After a moment he added sardonically, "Even if only for the political side of it."

"Politics." The distaste in Vader's voice was deafening.

"Politics. The Empire isn't perfect. Nothing is. And so long as we refuse to address those imperfections, or don't work to resolve some of the more… contentious issues," he glanced up to look his father in the eye, folding his white cuffs neatly at his wrists; he could see his father's irises fizz yellow through the red lenses, "like slavery… We will keep losing the disenfranchised to the Rebellion's arms. And we'll _deserve_ it."

"Let the faithless flee. They will die for their treachery."

"You can't rule an Empire of the dead," Luke chided.

"I won't be the one ruling it."

Luke smiled a little and, for a moment, he allowed himself to dream.

They could finally make things _right_.

Then he dragged himself away from dreams and back towards reality.

"Besides," he said. "Even if this fails—which it won't!—this will make for good publicity. Showing the citizens of the Empire that my first act after being officially declared as your son and in line for the throne is to try to negotiate peace will create a good image."

There was a long silence after that, broken only by a hissing through his vocoder that sounded suspiciously like a sigh… Then Vader reached up to ruffle Luke's hair.

"You," he said fondly, "are so much like your mother."

"A politician?" Luke teased. Only _some_ of the disdain in his voice leaked out; the main politicians he could name off the top of his head were Orn Free Taa, a boot-kissing leech, and Senator Organa, the other end of the difficult spectrum…

"A hopeless optimist," Vader corrected, and handed him his lightsaber.

Luke smiled as he slipped his hand around it, feeling the familiar ridges and grooves. His father had made it during the Clone Wars—with nothing in mind but to defend his mother with it, he'd told him—and though Luke knew he should not be carrying a Jedi's weapon that still shone blue, he'd always found himself reluctant to corrupt it. It was a gift from his father, a recognition that he would be fighting his own battles now but he still wanted to be there protecting him, in spirit, with the weapon made to protect his mother before him.

He took it in his hand and clipped it to the back of his belt.

"You will not be allowed it in the negotiating room," Vader warned him, "remember. Those were the terms set down just to allow this to take place. You will be at risk if any one of them breaks the terms in order to bring in a weapon."

"They won't. If there's one thing the Rebels pride themselves on, it's being _honourable_."

"Their honour includes destroying military bases and committing terrorist acts against the best government their planets have experienced in centuries. Whatever their code of honour is, I neither agree with nor trust it."

"Then trust _me_ ," Luke reached up to take Vader's hand and squeeze it between his own, smiling up at him, "and the fact I can defend myself without weapons."

"Your physical strength still requires some work." The words were light, despite the worry.

Luke riposted with a smile, "Not all of us are two metres tall with durasteel limbs, Father."

Vader sighed, touching both his hands to Luke's for a moment, then reaching to adjust his cape, smooth over some of the wrinkles. "The Emperor will not be happy no matter how this turns out."

Anger flashed in him like a firework, sending shreds of his control up in flames. "He can burn in hell."

"Luke, be careful—"

"He has fought so hard against this. He has no interest in peace. He is a lazy, sadistic old man and I won't let him ruin—"

He kept talking, but no more words came up. He sucked in a breath and shot a look at his father, betrayed. It didn't hurt, but it was _inconvenient_.

After a moment, Vader released his voice. "Do not say such thing so clearly," he demanded. "You are sixteen. You are no match for him. I will not have you picking a fight you cannot win."

"He will not interfere. He has never been happy with me, and I _don't care_ anymore, I will not—"

_"Luke!"_

He felt his father's fury, then—his _fear_ —and fell silent.

The finger came out to jab in his face; he stood back and bowed his head, staring at the floor. "I have told you. _Do not speak like that_."

"Yes, Father," he ground out. Vader sighed, and it only made his bitterness grow.

He was sixteen. He was sick of being treated like a child.

Vader laid a hand on his shoulder and Luke tilted his head slightly, to look up at him through his lashes.

"They will be waiting for you on the surface," he reminded him. "It is time to go."

Luke nodded. "I'm ready."

"I know you are. I am proud of you," his vocoder stuttered for a moment, "and, considering what you have striven to achieve here today, your mother would be too."

Luke ducked his head again—this time as his cheeks warmed to roses.

He could do this.

His parents had faith in him, even if it was reluctant.

This was _his_ moment, his first action as Lord Vader's son in the public eye, and he was going to make the most of it.

* * *

C'platn was a neutral planet in neutral space—it was a far away part of the galaxy with very few resources, trading connections or even ease of transport, so the Empire had been perfectly content to leave them alone. It was sparsely populated, with some pretty but not stunning fields covering much of its surface, and a mild climate that had Luke feeling slightly warm striding from the shuttle to the building designated for the negotiations. His cape flowed behind him, too heavy for this weather—space was cold; he'd always known that—but he couldn't take it off.

His father never took his cape off in public. He couldn't take his off; it would ruin the effect.

The Rebel representatives were already inside; he could sense them. No Jedi, despite the fact he knew the Rebellion had Jedi to send; he assumed they didn't want to risk them against Sithspawn.

They needn't have worried. Luke wasn't here to fight.

He stepped inside the building—an old Imperial outpost from before Palpatine had realised there was nothing to gain here but dust—and kept a weather eye out for any trouble. There seemed to be nothing, and the Force was quiet for now…

The corridors were reassuringly familiar in design; they relaxed his shoulders under the cape, content with the knowledge he might… succeed.

He'd known it had a good chance—he wouldn't have started this undertaking if he didn't believe in it—but… His father's doubts had got to him. He could admit that.

It didn't matter.

This was his moment.

This was when he made his impact. It was time to change the Empire, show that they could work towards a better galaxy with Rebels, change the story about both the 'terrorist' fighters and the 'terrorist' state—

"Halt." A Rebel guard standing at the door stopped him before he could enter. "Your weapons."

Luke could feel his security detail bristle and shook his head lightly at them, giving up his lightsaber easily. It hurt to be parted with it, especially seeing it in the hands of _Rebels_ , but this was necessary. He'd expected it.

He glanced at the troopers escorting him and gave them a sharp motion of the hand, smiling as Phlin did so promptly, but Streak tilted his head in a way that meant he was rolling his eyes, even as he obeyed. Dot seemed reluctant to give up any of her blasters, particularly the big, powerful one that was her pride and joy, but finally she allowed it to be pried out of her grip and it went in the box marked _Imperial Weapons_.

"I assume we can trust the Rebels have dearmed themselves?" Phlin asked sharply.

The Rebel gave him a withering glare. Luke kept his face neutral.

"Your men have been here since we got here, yes. They took the blasters. The rest of your lot are already inside as well; you're the last ones." He addressed it to Luke with no ceremony—no _my lord_ , _Your Highness_ , or even a _sir_ —but Luke… let it slip. It was a complicated time. He didn't want to alienate them before they dealt with them.

His three guards fell back around him and made to enter the room, where he could already hear Mas Amedda's grinding voice droning on about one thing or another. Dot went first—then the detector built into the door beeped and Luke chided, "Dot—"

She sighed, reached into her boot and pulling out a long, thin knife to hand it over. The Rebel looked alarmed at the blood still crusting it.

"Is that all, sir?" he demanded.

Dot made to nod—then handed over two thin knives sheathed and hidden in her wrist to the box as well.

When she stepped through this time, scanning the surroundings, there was no alert.

Luke passed through smoothly as well, barely paying attention as Phlin and Streak followed. They'd be there; they always had been, as long as Luke was alive. They were all clones, the first squad his father had assigned to protect him, and they had never failed.

So he knew that Lib would be watching on scanners for the slightest sense that something was wrong, listening to all the reports gathered to judge danger levels and keeping in communication with Dot. He knew Mel-Tic would be patrolling the perimeter, as engaged as possible. And the rest of them would be just as attentive.

Their eyes were on him, but it was comforting—not a pressure.

He stepped into the room.

Blandly decorated, the same grey walls all up and down it, with a long table slapped in the centre. The door Luke had entered in had him nearest the Rebellion's end of the table, so he and his troopers marched past them all, quietly clocking their faces. Arli Sella: an aide to Mon Mothma from during her time in the Senate, selected to represent her leader. Admiral Raddus: one of the more headstrong, bolder military officers in the Rebellion, who might have been glaring at Luke; he wasn't sure how to read Mon Calamari expressions, something he should really work on. There was a Tognath representative from Jedha, a human representative from the Cloud Riders, and a few others. A Twi'lek from the Free Ryloth movement. A Pantoran, who he thought may be called Malbroich. A Mirialan with teal diamonds sunk into the hollows of her cheeks.

He got to the head of the table. Mas Amedda was seated there, but Luke just gave him a look—Dot, Phlin and Streak bristling at his back probably helped a lot—and he vacated the chair immediately. Luke considered maybe a snide comment about it, before dismissing it. He didn't want to seem too childish.

He would already be dealing with—

"Lord Skywalker." Sella's voice was controlled and monotone, but the Force betrayed her… disdain. Surprise. "You're… shorter than I expected."

He gritted his teeth.

"And more of you agreed to meet with me than I expected," he replied, with an attempt at grace. He felt Amedda bristle next to him at the _me_ —but that was what this was, wasn't it? This wasn't exactly sanctioned by the Empire at large; Amedda wasn't here for some epic treaty. Luke knew full well Palpatine thought of this as Luke's play area, Luke's folly, Luke's doomed project… and that Amedda was just here to make sure he didn't embarrass the Empire _too_ badly even as he embarrassed himself.

He swallowed his bitterness and smiled. He saw Sella's jaw clench. "I hope we manage to surprise each other a lot more in these talks." The tension skyrocketed before he noticed his slip, and he knotted his fingers together on the table as he said further, perfectly calm: "I am willing to open avenues previously closed, in order to compromise and achieve peace. If we can meet somewhere in the middle, we could end this destructive conflict for good."

The Mirialan—later introduced as Lieda Isetolm—was watching him closely, and she nodded when she heard that. Raddus harrumphed, the Tognath snorted, but the others looked… cautiously optimistic.

Everyone was still on edge, but there was nothing to be done about that.

"To begin with," Luke said, "these are the Empire's aims and terms that we will not budge on. I would be curious to hear your thoughts on these, and your own."

* * *

He was in there for hours.

Food was brought in—bought from the locals—to provide for when they were meant to stop for a break but were too caught up in the logistics of certain planets' secession to do so. Secession was a heavy word, especially after the Clone Wars, and one that Luke knew Palpatine could well have him… _punished_ … for even considering, but if they had to sacrifice a few systems, and _only a few_ , in order to end the mass, organised conflict…

The Tognath never looked impressed, and Raddus went on a few rants about Imperial devastation and destruction—mining projects that Luke had never understood the aim of, invasions and brutal repression in proud worlds, heavy taxes, corrupt officials and stale hierarchies. Luke listened to them all, letting them see him taking notes.

Some of those notes had doodles at the side, but they were there to remind him of a specific moment, or concept, or attitude; they narrowed his focus.

Finally, they stopped for the day.

They had made… progress. On paper, not much, but in terms of establishing a rapport and building up an ability to compromise… He could already see Malbroich and the Cloud Rider warming up to his ideas. Sella was harder to win over, as committed to the idea of _democracy_ as her senator, but even she had to recognise that extremist activity wouldn't bring back her precious Republic. She could compromise until the Empire was something even a hardliner like her would believe in, and then they could win over most of the stragglers.

He was worried about the Tognath—he'd seemed… antsy… the whole day—but otherwise, he felt fine. Positive, even. It had gone well.

He told his father as much.

"Independent constitutions for multiple Core and Mid Rim worlds," he listed. "Decreased taxes and military presence, in return for decreased Rebel presence, protests and sabotage—"

Vader cut him off. "You cannot abide by their promises. They are a poorly organised band of thousands of cells, each operating independently and causing more havoc. Even if you could trust the word of one of them, you cannot trust that word to apply to all. You will sacrifice foundational aspects of the Empire we have built for nothing."

"They have joined together in the Rebel Alliance—and even if we can only get the main cell bound in a treaty, that will cut off much of the funding, coordination and cooperation that has made them such a threat." Luke slung his cape off his shoulders to hang on the hook and unbuttoned his jacket, slipping his feet out of his boots. It was late; he just wanted to eat a full meal rather than snacks, and get some sleep before he dived into the fray again tomorrow.

But he was buzzing. They were getting somewhere. _They were getting somewhere_.

"Besides. If the Rebellion signs a treaty, then breaks it—how could they ever claim to be the honourable ones again? It's still a matter of public image and politics, Father."

"They did not care about their public image when causing wanton destruction. They will not care now."

"But it takes away their ability to become an even larger threat."

"A small threat is still a threat, and we are paying too steep a price for—"

Luke slammed his hand down on the dresser. "If the Emperor has objections to what I am offering, I will be informed." Luke snapped the words, clutching the edge of the dresser, arm trembling. "I am sure of that, and I am not bargaining with anything that I do not think anyone with sense would not mind losing, not in return for our gains. Amedda has been spying on me and reporting me to him—if he is unhappy with my negotiations, _I will know._ He will make sure of it."

The faint lightning scars that lanced up his back twinged.

Vader growled, "That is precisely what I would like to _avoid_. Do not risk your wellbeing on foolishness. Whether the risk would be from the Rebels… or from our master."

Luke clenched his jaw so tightly it ached.

"This is my first mission," he said. "Master entrusted it to _me_ —I know he indulged me for his own amusement, I know he expects me to fail, but I do not care. He is watching carefully; he will have a contingency plan for when I succeed. He will _adapt_ to what I have offered, and I will have brought some measure of _peace_ to the galaxy."

Vader said nothing.

Luke turned around, his socks brushing against the carpet of his quarters. "Isn't that what you've fought for, all these years, Father? _Peace_?"

Vader cupped his cheek in his massive hand. "I have fought for _you_ , Luke. If peace comes at any risk to you, I do not want it."

"It won't come like that," Luke assured. "I know it won't. And if there is a risk… my squad will protect me. You handpicked them to do just that."

Vader's thumb brushed over his cheekbone. "You are still so young and optimistic. Your squad are some of the best, but they cannot spare you from everything. The Emperor—"

"I am young," Luke interrupted. "But I am not a child, Father."

"Nor are you an adult."

Luke closed his eyes, _irritated_ at the tears of frustration that threatened to surge. "I am not a child. I— I know what I'm doing. Can you not trust me? Do you not trust me?"

"This is not about trust. This is about experience, and the sort of knowledge your mother did not acquire until she had been a senator for years." His hand dropped from his face. "And you still have much left to learn, my son."

Luke's chest was tight.

"I see," he said, and turned away. His father didn't trust him.

He didn't know what else he had expected.

"Luke—"

He ignored him. He just walked into the dining room of his quarters and sat in front of a full meal—even if he didn't touch it for several long minutes, just staring at his hands instead.

* * *

He woke up bright and early the next day, poorly rested. He'd tossed and turned with worry.

He could do this. He could do this. He _knew_ he could.

But with his father's blatant disbelief and disdain brought to the forefront… his doubts grew.

He squashed them viciously. His father knew nothing. His father was— he was jealous, or too blinded by misplaced loyalty to Palpatine, or he underestimated Luke. This was _Luke's moment_ , this was his achievement, and whether or not Vader believed in him, he was going to succeed, he was going to _prove him wrong_ —

Yesterday had been so promising.

Promising enough that Amedda looked furious when Luke stormed into the shuttle again to take his seat. Promising enough that—well, things looked dangerous. If he'd annoyed the hardline Imperials and—hopefully—the hardline Rebels enough to have them both be glaring daggers at him, then that surely suggested a compromise was in sight, right?

Surely?

He didn't like the questions suddenly crowding his head.

He shoved them out again. The Force lapped around him, cool and clear as ever, and he seized it, drawing on its strength. Every cell in his body chilled, thrummed with power; he took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, sitting upright in his seat on the lambda shuttle down to C'platn. Lib was directly opposite him; if the spark of gold in his eyes was unnerving, nothing in the clone's composure betrayed it.

Good. They'd all need nerves of steel for this. He was already waiting for it to be over.

They landed quickly, and he strode right out, not even waiting for his squad to assemble around him first; he heard the quiet flurry of cursing as they jogged to catch up with him.

His lightsaber was already off his belt and in his hand when they approached the doors to the main room. The Rebel flinched and raised his own blaster—Luke realised just in time that he looked like he was approaching ready to light it, so he twisted it in his hand and lifted his arms in peace.

The Rebel relaxed. Marginally. He was still tense, trembling with energy.

Luke wondered what that was about.

He didn't hesitate nearly as much to hand over his father's blade, this time. Vader… Vader hadn't even bothered showing up at his quarters that morning to send him off.

The absence was a hollowness in his chest.

"Is everyone else inside?" he asked, a little sharply—then winced at his own tone, as the Rebel looked ready to jump out of his skin. "That is, are we ready to begin?"

"In any moment," the Rebel replied. Again with no title, but it was water off a Naboo duck's back. Luke had bigger things to worry about.

Streak chimed in, "Dot was assigned to the other door, sir, checking for the Alliance weapons. She says all clear, and ready to begin."

"Good. Then let's begin."

When the doors swung open, everyone jumped in their seats.

Luke paused, letting them close behind him. The Rebels were huddled together, eyeing each other—and now him—with suspicion and nervousness. The Imperials were glaring; Amedda, following in on Luke's heels, looked… not smug. But anticipatory.

After the satisfaction of yesterday… something was wrong.

It wasn't just Luke's foul mood.

Something was wrong.

The dark side was a fickle thing, and he'd thought the overwhelming negativity it was echoing back at him was… well, an echo. Between his own bitterness, and the tension stewing at the back of his mind from his bond with his father, he'd assumed the bad feeling that wrapped around him was a physical cloud of his own irritation, a source of power for him to draw on, something he could _use_. But glancing around, scanning the room with a frown…

Its blared warnings were harder and harder to ignore.

Steady. He had to be steady.

He took his seat at the head of the table, didn't tuck the chair in quite as much as he had yesterday, and rested his feet on the floor carefully—ready to spring up if needed.

One hand sank to the fine woodgrain of the tabletop, and he tapped out the rhythm of the Imperial anthem with three fingers. Malbroich, the Pantoran negotiator, flinched with every noise.

"Is everything in order?" he asked. "We have had the chance to convene overnight and discuss the negotiations with the relevant parties"—he had _done_ no such thing, but he'd meant it when he told his father that whether or not the Emperor approved of the specifics of this was a moot point—"so I would begin by asking if there are any more specific thoughts one might have—"

"It is evident," Sella interrupted him, tone cold as ice, dark eyes glaring at him, " _my lord_ , that you have little to no experience with negotiations."

Luke paused, unsure how to handle that— that blatantly undiplomatic insult. Darkness purred at his back, hissing, even as anger burnt in every breath he took—

But he held a lid on it long enough to say, "I beg your pardon, Representative Sella?" Mothma, for all her folly, had at least had the sense not to be so _bold_ in her dislike and scepticism in the Senate—

"You are young. You were only recently inducted into the Imperial line of succession. I do not believe that by sending _you_ to negotiate with us, Palpatine ever intended for these discussions to succeed."

Luke bit his tongue. No—no he hadn't.

But Luke couldn't say that here, could he? He couldn't openly discuss distaste towards his Emperor and master…

"However it may appear, Representative Sella, I assure you that I, and all the diplomats I gathered here, are dedicated to finding a firm compromise and a way to move forward in peace. I fully intend for these negotiations to succeed." He surveyed her for a moment. "A sentiment I would have hoped that you and your allies would _share_."

"We do not deal with liars and snakes," she insisted.

And suddenly, the bad feeling Luke had had niggling at his back erupted into a splash of cold, freezing the back of his neck, his bones, his mind—

He brought his legs up and threw himself backwards before the blaster bolt could punch through his chest.

He blinked and the world slowed, past, present and future melting together in a swirl of molten colour. He saw Isetolm scowl, the diamonds on her face twisting, then whip out a blaster and level it at his chest, pulling the trigger without a moment's hesitation. He was already shoving himself back, the chair screeching on the floor, then flipping back with the force of the motion, Mas Amedda yelping and scrambling away.

Luke threw his head right back, horizontal, then back further, just as it flashed forwards, until it just barely missed his neck—

Instead scouring through his lips, punching through his cheekbone, and just skimming the shell of his ear.

Pain and blood erupted from his cheek. He _shouted_ , a strangled cry ripped out of his throat as that just hurt his wound further, and then the chair was knocked back by the force of his recoil and he was tumbling, tangled in his cape, on the floor.

He rolled, got to his feet again, as Isetolm shot again, and again; he seized a chair with the Force to block both bolts then _flung_ it at her, and watched with a vicious satisfaction as they scrambled. Other Rebels opened fire—the Tognath, Raddus, even Sella had a small blaster on her—and Luke's squad moved in front of him to take the brunt, fighting back, surging forwards—

A lucky shot amongst the barrage punched through Mel-Tic's blackened armour and blood spurted with a dying shout.

Blast it. Blast the Rebels, blast the terrible armour even the clone troopers were assigned—

Lib lasted a few more seconds before there was another dead clone on the floor.

Luke felt their deaths in the Force and _fumed_ , letting the power of his rage lash out and snap two, three Rebels' necks, lifting more chairs to shatter against the back wall. He saw Isetolm take aim at him again and, his face in _agony_ as it contorted into a snarl, yanked the blaster out of her hand. He caught it and shot the controls on the nearest door; it slid shut, and they backed away, eyeing the other exit.

"What is this?" he growled—then it turned into a bellow. "Did you only come here to assassinate me!?"

"On the contrary, _my lord_." Sella ducked behind a chair as he fired that blaster right back at her. "We know that your plan was only to lure us here to kill us!"

"It most certainly was _not_!" He stalked forwards—and they fled.

_Good._

The dark was writhing in his blood, rearing its shaggy head in his chest; he wanted to hunt them down, he wanted to chase them, he wanted to _kill them_.

The pain in his face sparked power. He grasped the Tognath by the throat and snapped him in half like a twig. The next Rebel was Malbroich, fleeing for his life…

He let him run.

He let him overtake the next person fleeing—and focused his attention on them. Because there was the Rebel who'd taken his weapons, his squad's weapons, on entry. He still had the box, awkward in his arms; he shot a glance over his shoulder at Luke's inexorable, rapid approach and sprinted to the nearest window, smashing it open with his elbow, and emptying it out.

The wind whipped through the shattered panes, tugging at his cape, fanning it behind him like a pair of wings. Luke reached out a hand.

The lightsaber stopped falling in midair.

Lit, bright blue.

Then scythed back into his hand—right through the stupid Rebel's torso.

He made a pathetic yelp as he died. Luke didn't even bother staying to watch his body hit the floor.

The Rebels had a head start now but he started running—he could sense them fleeing, heading for the door farthest from the one Luke had entered through, where their transport ship was docked. There were no stairs, he was fairly sure; no, actually, there was one set. The Rebels would know that, and indeed, he could sense them heading that way…

Well, he wasn't just going to wait for the turbolift.

His lightsaber roared in his hand, and he slashed a hole in the lift doors, not stopping to blink or think before he leapt down, cape billowing in his wake. His own blood was caught by the draft and splattered in his right eye, but he kept the other open, listening his instincts—and landed with a Force-softened whisper.

Three slashes of his lightsaber, a push, and then he was out, whipping his head around… staring at the door at the base of the stairs.

Running footsteps pattered above, sprinting for him. Just as Isetolm shoved the double doors open, he raised the blaster he'd taken from her and shot her in the chest.

The expression that flashed in her dark eyes as she looked at him… the fear… he savoured it.

The panicked footsteps had stopped; fear choked the air. He strode forwards, lightsaber held out to his side, and when the first volley came, he batted them away.

Left, right, left—he tore through one Rebel guard, then another; seized a third and slammed him down against the banister so hard there was a deafening _crack_. A yank on the Force saw the remaining blasters scatter, and then, walking up step by inexorable step, he drove his saber into a Rebel's chest.

A blaster shot behind him; his lightsaber flashed back to block it without looking. He turned to see on the steps above him the last survivor—Sella. Of course.

He snarled at her. "Did you expect that assassination attempt to _work_?"

"Did _you_ expect your blatant trap to work?" she shot back—punctuated by a blast. He crushed her blaster, and her hand, where it was held.

She screamed.

Screamed, but gritted out through the pain: "My lady knew better than to come herself, and so did the other members of High Command! You gain… nothing… from this…!"

He tightened his fist even more, and her words stuttered off into gurgles, her skin flushing dark as she gasped for breath.

"I had hoped that we could _both_ gain something from this! Who told you I would try to kill you?" he demanded.

"This thing… called _common karking sense—_ "

"Something happened overnight, you gained this information overnight—you had no such suspicions yesterday. Who told you the lie that led to…" He made a dismissive, disgusted motion at the bodies littering the stairwell, even as he lifted her higher off the ground. "… _this_?" Another thought struck him. "Who let you into the room with blasters in the first place?"

She scoffed a laugh. "Even your own men want you dead… Skywalker…"

Dot.

She had been the one responsible for overseeing the weapons brought into the room. She—a member of his own squad had—

She had tried to kill him.

Or rather, she had been complicit in letting it happen.

_"Who told you I was going to kill you?"_

Sella spat in his face. He didn't know how she managed to be so accurate when she was kicking in mid-air, dying, the slightest motion almost breaking her neck, but it hit his cheek.

He reached up to wipe it off.

And then he enjoyed the sound of flesh crumpling, bones popping, a cut-off scream, as he crushed her right there, and threw her body down the stairs to slam into the others.

He took a moment to compose himself.

The front of his lovely white tunic was stained with blood that had dripped there, and the wound seared into his face was only bleeding more; he could feel the flesh nicked out of his lip with every shaped word, every scowl. He took a corner of his cape and wiped his cheek, letting the stinging fuel him, but even then his face was soaked in red mere moments later.

The negotiations, he observed, had failed utterly.

* * *

His father had sensed the commotion on the planet—of course he had. It was unrealistic to believe that he hadn't. The way he looked at him when he walked off the shuttle and into the hangar on the _Devastator_ burned more than his hastily treated wound did.

The _I told you so_ never came verbally, but every one of the words Vader _did_ say reverberated with it so thickly that it might as well have.

He didn't meet his eye for the whole walk to the medbay. He felt like— like a child, scorned for his ambition and high aims. His stupid actions.

"I don't need to see a medic," he complained, viciously aware that he was just completing the image. "It's a shallow cut on my face. I can slap a bacta patch on it and _it will heal_."

"I would rather have you looked at, just to be sure." The tone was dark and heavy, and again: Luke flinched away from it.

But then Vader put a large hand on his shoulder and… opened their bond a little. Let him feel his concern. "You are certain that this is the only injury you sustained?"

"The people sustaining injuries after that first shot were _them_."

"Good." His satisfaction was thick; it almost outweighed his disappointment. "How many did you kill? How many escaped?"

"All of them." It hurt to talk. That didn't stop him. Feeling his father's faint disappointment was bad enough; he didn't know what he'd open himself up to if he tried to communicate mentally, and he didn't want to. "None of them."

Some of the Rebels who'd stayed behind in their ship that day… who'd never come into the room, never faced him… they had escaped. He would hunt them down later, make them pay—try to understand _why_.

But everyone in that building had died.

"Good." They reached the medbay, and Vader stopped at the door. "You can get yourself examined. I have matters to attend to."

"You're going to inform _Master_ of my failure?" Luke bit out.

That had been his moment.

His chance to bring peace to the Empire.

He had been doing so well.

Then some _stupid Rebels_ with some sort of _stupid, ridiculous intel_ had ruined it all.

He sucked in a breath and tried not to physically growl.

"I have other things to do. I am at neither yours nor the Emperor's constant beck and call."

Luke heard the lie, verbal or not. "But you're off to clean up my mess anyway."

"Go and get _yourself_ cleaned up, Luke." The hand was back on his shoulder, gentle—pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "I… am sorry that your dream had to turn out this way. I know that you worked hard on this. You did not deserve it."

"I failed. That's all that happened." He shoved the button to open the door to the medbay. "You can stop babying me."

He felt his father's regret as he went, but said nothing until the door had hissed closed again.

* * *

He was discharged from the medbay quickly, Kix giving him a sympathetic look and a bacta patch after the wound on his face was cleaned up. So long as he kept the patch on there, it would heal up nicely, and wouldn't even scar; otherwise, there was a risk of permanent nerve damage.

He didn't bother hanging around anywhere. None of the troopers or officers he walked past, even the ones he was friendly with, met his gaze. He wondered if news had spread that quickly, or if he was acting like his father—making the temperature drop so fiercely that it was hard for even Force-blind soldiers to not notice it.

He went straight to the turbolift, and straight to his quarters. His father wasn't in his own quarters next door; he wondered where he was, realised he could probably guess, and decided he didn't care. Dot, at least, had it coming.

Instead, he picked up his datapad, and skimmed the report on the situation Amedda had sent to Palpatine. The worm had survived the firefight with minimal blaster wounds, it seemed. A pity.

After he read the report, he clenched the datapad so tightly he crushed it by accident, the Force snaking and curling around his hands.

He didn't care. He just tossed it aside and leaned forwards on his desk, burying his face in his hands and _shouting_. The holos rattled on the shelves.

He could salvage this.

Make something of a _decent_ publicity stunt out of it.

Vader's son tried and risked it all for peace, only for bloodthirsty Rebels to attempt assassination attempt.

Failed negotiations ending in bloodbath, showing that even the _moderate_ Rebels cannot be reasoned with.

The brave new prince extended a hand in peace and was rewarded with violence, heroically saving the day and his fellow Imperials by not letting the Rebels escape with their injustice.

He slammed his hand against the desk.

Yes, they… they could make some sort of positive publicity out of it. The media could spin anything to be pro-Imperial. He didn't have to worry about that.

He just had to worry about himself.

He'd just proved Palpatine and his father right. He was too young, naïve, foolish, to engage in… any of this. He was weak, and inexperienced, and _needed more training_ —

He shuddered.

The Rebels had been set in their conviction—they were convinced he'd set up the peace talks to murder them. They would likely always think that, considering how it ended. No more peace talks would ever be on the table, not involving his father and Emperor or the Alliance… and not involving him.

He didn't care.

He had failed.

He'd been wrong.

The Rebels could not be negotiated with.

They were too trigger happy, too willing to believe arbitrary information at the cost of everything else… and they simply _did not want to be negotiated with._

The door behind him hissed open; Luke had been too busy stewing in hiss own fury to sense his father's blazing sun approaching at his back. He didn't greet him now; just kept staring at his fingers on the table.

"I assume you just came back," he said lowly, "from executing the remains of my squad?"

_My squad_. They were his, had been for years—they'd been there to protect him when his father had not, they'd helped raise him, they were his closest friends.

They'd all either died before his eyes today, betrayed him, or…

"They failed you. One betrayed you. Only a few remained, and I took care of them for that crime."

Among the hustle and bustle of the warship, Luke hadn't even felt their deaths.

He wasn't sure if he was glad or sad about that.

He lifted his finger to the bacta patch across his face. He could smell it; he could taste it, on his lip. "I failed them," he replied.

"You were not supposed to protect them."

"They were my squad. I was— I was supposed to _not fail!_ " He spun around in his chair to glare at his father—then peeled off the edge of the bacta patch.

Vader stepped forwards. "You are acting like a child. Stop this. What has been done has been done, and now you understand why peace was never an option with these scum."

Luke ignored him—sort of. The words cut deep, but he didn't reply; instead he just fiddled until he got a better grip on his bacta patch.

And then he ripped it off.

The wound that had scabbed and started healing was torn open again, sprinkling his cheek with blood. He dropped the patch to the floor, bloodying the carpet.

Vader grasped his wrist. "Stop this. Get another bacta patch. Your wound will scar."

Of course he'd made sure to hear the situation from Kix.

Of course he'd hovered like that.

_Of course he knew that._

Luke wrenched his hand away. "Then let it scar. Let it be a reminder."

"Of _what_ , Luke? Your own immaturity?"

"Of harsh truths I didn't want to believe," he said bitterly. "There is no one willing to cooperate with me, who I can reach out to in good faith. The Rebels can't be bargained with. They cannot be negotiated with or locked in a treaty." He stepped back, and took a deep breath. "They can only be destroyed."

He took a deep breath. "And if I show them mercy, they will destroy me. They have made that _perfectly clear_."

"We are in agreement there," Vader intoned. "But Luke…"

The naked concern hurt him.

He would've preferred _I told you so._

He turned on his heel, marched into his bedroom, and locked the door.

Though he could sense his father still hovering outside, he didn't come in; he respected his privacy enough not to.

"Luke…" Vader tried again… then sighed. "I… will be in my chambers, if you need me."

Luke didn't respond. He sank onto his bed, and pulled his legs up to cross underneath him.

He sensed his father move away, staying close—as promised—but he ignored him. This…

The Rebels should have cooperated.

He'd thought that they were people who could be reasoned with; he could admit to… sympathising with a lot of their goals, understanding what was wrong. Palpatine was a sadistic, cruel, and frankly a terrible Emperor, and he related to wanting to overthrow him, to put an end to his schemes. The mass arrests and curfews, strict taxes, invasions… The militarism… The intense mining of Jedha, Ilum, everywhere else… he didn't even know why he wanted so many kyber crystals, or if it was just to do with destroying more and more of the legacy of the Jedi, but the _effects_ …

Luke was loyal to the Empire, as his father had raised him to be. But he was also capable of independent thinking—as his father, and his mother's memory, had raised him to be.

He had wanted to fix things.

He had wanted to reach out, and help them. To make his mark, and make it clear that he intended to use his power within the Empire for something _good_. Public relations stunt aside, he'd…

He'd _just wanted to help—_

He shouted, grabbed the lightsaber from his belt and slashed it around. The pillows on his bed exploded in puffs of feathers, swirling around him, burning. Pricks of heat scalded his skin but he ignored it, letting it stoke his anger and hate.

The fires died out after a moment, leaving the walls and bed covers scorched black, but amber spots still smouldered like fireflies. He ignored them.

Instead, he stared down at his blue blade, still humming in his hand, fierce and steady. He switched it off.

He had thought he could pursue peace. He had thought he could keep walking this in-between path—an Imperial who compromised with Rebels, a prince who sympathised and helped terrorists, a Sith with a Jedi's weapon.

He could not.

This, he realised his gritted teeth, was a war.

And the Rebels were not about to accept his treaties and concessions and outstretched hands.

So why should he concede? Why should he hold out that hand at all, if it would only get cut off?

It had been going so well before it had failed.

_Why had it failed?_

His saber still held out in front of him, he channelled all that hate and barrelled into the Force until he near-drowned in it, growling, _Tell me. Tell me what I need to know._

The dark side howled.

_Tell me!_

The image floated to mind, rippling like the churning water's surface under the waterfalls of Theed, the colours and shapes held together by spite and strength, dissolving and bubbling into unrecognition with every second too-short that he gazed at them, seeing—

— _Sella, smiling cautiously as she walked out of the room, talking with Isetolm—_

_—Amedda, the scum, scowling and muttering to his guard, tapping something out on a datapad—_

_—the Tognath and Raddus consulting in barbed tones—_

_—the report to his father and to Palpatine, his father's impassiveness and Palpatine's smile—_

_—a glimpse at Isetolm's face as something whispered in her ear shot her through with bitter, overwhelming terror—_

—and then nothing.

Nothing but writhing colour and writhing rage, his own, embracing him in its cold touch.

There was nothing he could deduce.

Nothing he could see.

Nothing to know.

He shouted again and leaned forwards, a burst of power sending the husks of burnt feathers whipping around him again in a storm. There was a spike of concern from his father that was batted away by the hurricane in a moment, as he scrunched up his face, tried not to let his tears of bitterness and viciousness and frustration betray him, brushing his thumb over the pieces and parts of his father's Jedi lightsaber.

Under the dark side's frigid touch, they unlocked, sliding over and apart from each other to let him get at the centre star.

He opened his eyes and closed his fist around the kyber crystal, feeling its warm thrum against his palm. For a moment it… waved… at him, sending pulses of that warmth, of encouragement, twinkling a blueish white in the dim light of his bedroom…

… _it's alright to have failed…_

_…everyone fails…_

_…you must keep going…_

_…the galaxy needs you to keep trying, to hold on…_

_…you are on the right path, you need only keep moving…_

_…you have done so well…_

And a flash of a familiar faces—his mother, in the weeks before she'd died; the last time he'd seen his family on Naboo, before his involvement in the Empire and their distaste for it had driven a wedge between them, Jobal cupping his cheek and Pooja shooting him a wry glance; and… a feeling of love, closing around him like wings, before it was cut off with a rush of cold air and the piercing cry of a newborn babe—

—and his father, his patient adoration, his faith in Luke—

_…you are loved, and you will have support even as you continue…_

He clenched his eyes shut again, but it was not enough to stop the tears from spilling over his cheeks.

"No," he said. The tumbling turmoil of emotions in his torso crashed through his voice, through the Force—and he channelled them into the crystal.

It started to scream.

_"No,"_ he said again. His mother was _dead_. The Naberries hadn't spoken to him since the announcement. His father loved him, but was strict, and would demand he lived up to his expectations. Palpatine could not be avoided or escaped, unless Luke committed to destroying him.

He could not walk a central path.

He could not assume that the galaxy would be kind to him, just because he tried to be kind to it. He could not afford that.

He could not keep acting like a child.

So he _shoved_ that into the kyber crystal, scrunched his face up in fury, let the blood drip from his reopened wound and sizzle on the white gem-like surface…

He expected to feel triumph when it was done. When the crystal ceased pushing back, and swapped its song for a scream.

Instead, he just felt empty.

He opened his eyes. It sat in his hand, suffering, and all he could give it was the same tired glare. He couldn't feel the side of his face; he wondered if that blaster shot would indeed give him nerve damage. He didn't really feel anything about that, either.

The lightsaber slotted back together, and he held it in his hand, rising out of the trance again.

It was done.

Only now, immersed in the physical world again, did he hear his father's frantic knocking on the door.

"Luke!? Luke!"

He opened it with a press of the Force and his father stormed in, looking wildly around, before he fixed his gaze on him.

Luke said nothing as he stood again, to walk up to him. Immediately, Vader laid a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright? I sensed—"

He broke off when he saw his face, his tone turning horribly gentle. "What happened, young one?"

Luke still said nothing.

He just lifted the lightsaber, held it out to the side, then lit it.

The crimson blade that shot out didn't seem to shock his father. He just watched with an impassive—perhaps slightly melancholy—gaze.

Luke said bitterly, "I grew up."


End file.
